


Tesserae

by Curt_Kenobi



Series: Pieces to Form a Whole'verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean's Alcoholism, Dean's selective mutism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort without any real comfort, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Gen, Hurt Castiel, Other, Shippy Gen, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 16:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4443815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curt_Kenobi/pseuds/Curt_Kenobi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hadn't expected to ever see him again, not really.<br/><em>He didn't expect the punch to the face.</em><br/>…And…he didn't expect for him to crumple beneath the blow.</p><p>(In which the boys are broken pieces.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> Instalment III of Pieces to Form a Whole'verse

* * *

_\-----m-y---b-o-d-y-'s---b-r-o-k-e-n;---y-o-u-r-s---i-s---b-e-n-t-----_

* * *

_Whatthefuckizzat._

Part of his mind finds the ability to be slightly amused that he's gotten to where even his thoughts are slurred. Let's hear it for dedication. His lips twitch – not a smile, or even a smirk. He doesn't think he could pull those off again to save his life. Who wants to smile in a world where your baby brother – the one you were supposed to keep safe, the one you were supposed to save, the one your mother died for – is in fuckin' Lucifer's cage in Hell.

…Way to ruin a small moment. He buries his face in the rough pillow.

 _Shit,_ he realises a moment later, raising his muzzy head. That fuckin' noise is still there.  _Buzz….Buzz._  What the fuck is it? He should know…should—

_Cell phone._

Jeez. He thought the damned thing had died. Should've thrown it out the window on the road. There'd been plenty of opportunities over the days…weeks. But he had promised Bobby he'd keep in touch. Only reason he still has it. …Who's freakin' calling, then – had called? Bobby would let Dean call first – he'd said he would.

Dean thinks of swiping at the irritating thing, hoping it will shatter apart as it impacts with the floor – maybe the wall and floor if he sweeps hard enough. Doesn't think luck would have it go his way, though.  _Winchester,_ his mind sardonically supplies in agreement: Winchesters don't get lucky.

With a groan, he flaps a hand blindly out and squints at the glowing screen.  _1 MISSED CALL_ _._ Little envelope at the top, blinking away: new voicemail. Dammit. The damn thing will keep buzzing if he doesn't check the voicemail. He runs through the motions, mind already half-drifting back off, just waiting for whomever was fucked enough to call's voice to come on so he can "press seven to delete."

" _Dean."_

Fuck. Only one person in all fucking  _Creation_  says his name like that, all imperious and desperate at the same time, his single little name its own full statement.  _Cas._  Damn, evidently Heaven's getting fucking  _awesome_ reception. What's he want? Waiting….

" _Return this call."_

Really, Cas? Really? You'd think the Heavenly Sheriff would have something more profound to say. "Return this call."  _Sorry, Castiel. I don't answer you anymore. You're a Dick again._ (Capital letter and all.)  _And I'm done with you pawn-pushers in Heaven and Hell._

He hits seven and tosses the phone. If it's so important, the bastard will bamf or shimmer or teleport –  _whatever_  – in at the foot of his bed.

…And Dean will ignore his feathery ass some more.  _Dick._

»« »« »«

He makes it further than he was actually expecting. (Honestly, when the full pain of truly  _moving_ his wings hit him, his tactical mind had calculated not much of a distance from his starting point would be had.)

He skids and tumbles hard upon crumbling asphalt, skinning his palms and wearing and tearing the knees of the dress pants. His teeth click as his chin connects with the ground. Blood and a stinging pain burst in his mouth and he spits, jaw aching and chin tingling where its skinned raw. He spares a quick look round, finding himself in an abandoned lot, before his eyes are watering so much his vision is blurred. Castiel gives in for a moment, curling in on himself with a low, wounded noise. It's not really the pains of his flesh affecting him; those are irritants more so than anything. But his wings – they've always been a part of him, symbolise who and what he is. ( _Is_ , he tells himself, even as a humanised part of him chimes in smartly:  _Sort of is/rather was_.) …Even as he was Falling, no matter how his Grace had faded because of his disconnect with the Host's plans, because of his doubt – he had never reached the point to where he  _lost_ his wings. Now though, as terrible a thought as it is, Castiel finds himself wondering if that would not be easier, to have them cleanly clipped or being completely rid of them.

Obsessing over the pain isn't going to ease it, this Castiel knows, and having his mind focused on a mission is a good replacement of thought process.  _No more flying. Get to Dean. Have a stable base from which to regroup and form a plan of action._  Mainly regroup.

He gets to his feet, feeling for the familiar imprint. His lock on it is tremulous, his stunted Grace drained a fair amount from his ill-fated attempt at flight, but he clings. He's not sure of distance, only direction, and for him, that's enough. He'll simply follow. Things will happen as they will.

»« »« »«

It strikes him that he should probably get his shit together and piece how long he's been in this dive, amongst other things. He's not sure what was left on the card he used – can't come off the top of his head what name was even on it. He's got a feeling he's been here near on a week, give or take. …Long time to stay in one place without being on a hunt. Long time for him to stay indoors.

He stumbles out of bed, head pounding. Grinds the heel of a palm into his right eye.  _Shiiit._ The last emptied bottle of Jack on the floor glints forlornly at him in the sliver of daylight stealing in through the curtains.  _Well damn._ He doesn't know if he's more vexed by the fact his booze has run out, or by the fact he will have to deal with (fucking obliviously ungrateful) people to replenish it.

He pads to the bathroom to piss, shower and shave. Finds it ironic that luck will let him escape imbedding glass mirror shards in the soles of his bare feet, but won't spare him  _This._

The shower clears his head, even as it steams the room, like lifting up a lens filter.  _Like a fuckin' Claritin commercial._ The colours don't necessary brighten rosily, all sunshine and new perspective, but reality – the full of it, not just his little bitch emo corner – certainly sharpens for him.

Out of no better thought of how to express it, Dean punches the shower wall, knuckles sliding.  _Fuck._  This is  _not_ what Sammy wanted him to do. Sam hadn't wanted him to fucking sulk out, hadn't wanted him to fall into a way he knows how to deal. He wanted  _better_ for him.  _"Go live that apple pie life, Dean. Go find Lisa, hope to hell she's dumb enough to take you in."_  Have an honest-to-God family like you've always wanted, Dean.

_(Since the only one you've ever had and needed is fucking nonexistent now.)_

He's letting Sam down. Fuck. How's he gonna fail by his brother when the dude's not even around? Great job, Winchester; get your fucking shit together. Figure out where the fuck you are and then put the Impala in the direction of Cicero and don't stop until you get there.

He's going to stock up first; he'll just hold back on imbibing. He grudgingly starts packing his stuff, righting the place so it  _doesn't_ look like he's been doing exactly as he has been. Then he'll load up, hit the store, and then head out.

«»

So he ends up passing out to cope with his hangover and misses check out. What's another day? He decides to take his gear to the car – notices the liquor store is a hop, skip and a jump away and figures the walk'll do him good.

As Dean returns, brown bag tucked in the crook of his arm and a six-pack in his other hand, his senses prickle. Wouldn't that just be his luck: he starts to actively do good on his unspoken word to Sammy and ends up falling back into hunting. He puts the six-pack into the cooler in the trunk and the bag of bottles into the floorboard of the backseat – less temptation if they're all the way out here – and takes a surreptitious survey of the lot. Nothing overtly out of place. Noise in the overgrown meadow this place backs up to. A cat's eyes – or shit, was that a raccoon? – gleaming at him from atop the dumpster at the far end of the otherwise still and quiet parking lot. It's not suspiciously cold, and there's no telltale scent of sulfur. …He shrugs. It  _would_ be like him to (want to) stumble across something, wouldn't it? But he hasn't, he doesn't, and he's not. 'Cos he's done fucking enough and more for humanity and he's got a normal life he's got to try and fit his way into. He locks the Impala and heads to his room.

»« »« »«

While it's his angelic form's pain he feels most acutely, Castiel finds that his mundane form's aches build up to a comparable irritation. Especially since he's been walking non-stop for a day and a half. His feet  _hurt._  His shoulders throb in sympathetic pain to his decommissioned wings.

But he can feel the tug of the classic Chevy as he traipses unevenly through the overgrown meadow. He feels the pull as warmly as he once felt the call of Heaven. He's so  _close_  – he can finally just _rest_  – regroup. Sort out just what has gone on – gone  _wrong._  For as much free time he has had since waking, his mind had decided it seemed, of its own volition, to not concentrate on those matters quite yet. Instead, it had thrummed numbly with overlapping throbs of pain and the faint whisperings of "angel radio" and the sounds around him; the rhythm and ache of every step, the currents of the air about him, muted signatures of people and creatures he had passed – and his single-minded purpose. The feel of every blink, each breath, his pulse. All of it had filled his mind with a cottony thoroughness, a white noise that had kept him from deeper contemplation of the grander points of his predicament.

He almost runs into the Impala. His mind had blanked except for " _keep going_ " and his limited, human vision had fuzzed with it. The jut of solid, unmoving steel against him is a startling comfort, and while his goal-oriented mind rails at not following through immediately, he takes a moment to lean against the car as he's seen the Winchester brothers do countless times. Palms flat against the cool smooth roof, he drops his forehead down to it as well.  _Almost like praying,_ he abstracts, irrationally grateful for the sturdy comfort of this object beneath him, before him, holding up his shivering frame. There's also a stab of…something like disappointment or disapproval as he realises  _he_ is capable of being far more resilient than this crafted work of metal.

(Is…  _Should be._ )

But he is not presently. The quaking in his knees underscores that fact quite clearly. Locking them and taking a resolute breath, Castiel pushes away from the Impala. Room thirteen is right across the way and a light shines behind the mostly drawn curtains like an invitation. Castiel approaches it.

»« »« »«

There's a knock at his door, as Dean's looking at the television but not seeing anything on the screen. Doesn't matter what noise it's making; he's got the sound turned off. The thought of people speaking and everyday sounds grates at him almost irrationally.

Hence why he's none too thrilled about the beckoning at the door.

It comes again:  _rap, rap, rap_ – a long pause, hesitation maybe, and then again in the same neat triplet. What the fuck?

" ' _Suddenly I heard a tapping, as of someone gently rapping – rapping at my chamber door.' You heard me rapping, right?"_  Yeah, yeah, he hears them rapping all right, for whatever fucking reason.

Scowling, he caves and walks to the door. Really – who the hell is bothering him? The front desk? Fuck 'em. Rooms next door? Screw them, too. The tapping knock sounds again as he slides the bolt. He jerks open the door with a harsh tug.

His eyes widen at the person before him, then narrow. He hadn't expected to ever see  _him_  again, not really. But it  _is_ him – Dean isn't sure how, but he can just  _tell._  He feels it.

Cas is taken aback a bit by the violence with which the door disappears from beneath his knuckles, the black look that overshadows the surprise in Dean's eyes as he takes him in. Maybe Dean believed he would actually have just forsaken him – returned to Heaven without a single backward glance? It is a fair assumption for him to glean, he supposes – though that wouldn't have been the case.

He doesn't expect the punch to the face. …In hindsight, as it rather goes along with Dean's current demeanour; he should've expected it. (Still, he didn't expect it to hurt so much; something new to add to the catalogue.)

And as he falls back on his ass, Dean's eyes widen again. He didn't expect for him to crumple beneath the blow. Absently, he flexes his hand; it doesn't feel broken from the impact with Cas' jaw. … _Something's off._  Something is off, and he should feel concerned about it, but instead all he can feel is a frustrated, furious rage welling, and he hauls Cas up by the lapels of his stupid trench coat and drags him inside the room. He slams the door shut by throwing Cas up against it.

The blue eyes Cas gained from Jimmy are cerulean-rich and wide, but still unfathomable, unreadable. There are so many words and emotions that want to erupt forth from Dean – he wants to tear the dude a new one, read off all his fucking gripes and grievances and just the fucking  _pain_ of his own righteous indignation. But they won't force past his throat, form in his dry mouth. So he just pins Cas and  _glares._

Castiel reads volumes in the glower, layers of emotions that threaten to suffocate him as they must be Dean even if he doesn't have the words that express them, the reasons for them. He can categorise most of what he reads within them, but not the  _why._  He opts to just swallow and work his sore jaw, meeting Dean's roiling green gaze.

"Hello, Dean. …I called." His words meet unbroken, mute simmering hostility; a brief pursing of lips indicates yes, Dean knows Castiel called — is unimpressed. Dean inclines his head, his brows furrowing in an accusatory way.

"I am in need of what I believe you refer to as 'a place to lay low,'" Cas says, words careful. The expression stays, and he elaborates: "All did not go quite as cooperatively as I would have hoped in Heaven. Raphael was...still most displeased with me."

A derisive snort escapes Dean, and Castiel favours his own look of irritation. "Obviously, you share the sentiment," Cas smarts, not in the least surprised by the quirked eyebrow of  _oh, really: y'think?_ upon Dean's face in response.

"You will let me go," adds Cas after a long moment passes with nothing but the palpable tenseness between them. He's worn down, and more than a little putout with this welcome and the wall unyielding at his sore back. His hands curl about Dean's wrists, ready to force him away if necessary, but at the contact, the hunter releases him as if burned.

Dean snaps back at the touch. For a moment he'd zoned, half-convinced himself he was hallucinating. But this is real. It's really Castiel, Angel of the deadbeat Lord, dishevelled and uncharacteristically easily pinned, before him. And Dean wants nothing more than to ring his fucking neck – and currently totally  _could –_  but an absurdly rational part of him is telling him now's not the time.

He really, really is considering ignoring it. This is the fucker that erased everything about Stull, who fucking just up and left. If there's an outlet for Dean Winchester's frustration about  _That_ , other than his godforsaken self, it's this angel. …But he stays back, body vibrating tension and hands itching.

Cas is a little stung at the – that's disgust and rage in Dean's stance. He bites down on his curiosity, though, not sure he wants to deal with the obstinate explanation Dean's sure to toss out if asked. Honestly, Cas simply wants to rest. After he's done that, he can have a head-to-head with Dean and his stubbornness. "May I stay?" he asks again – though where he will go if the answer is no, Cas hasn't a clue.

Dean regards him, eyes narrowed like he's warily conceding to accommodating an enemy. Where else is the dude gonna go then, though? He looks like shit – he probably walked for who knows how long; he can't drive, probably hasn't even thought of money, and has the social graces of a cat (somewhat endearing but in the long run off-putting). Why he didn't just fly is beyond Dean, though logic tells him that Raphael's "displeasure" probably figures into that.

Dean grimaces and shrugs. He grabs a change of clothes from his duffel at the foot of the bed and throws them at Cas. The angel catches them (with a pull of pain across his face, Dean notes, probably his back – his  _wings?_ ) and stares at them dumbly. Dean thumbs back at the bathroom behind him, and comprehension, with no little awkwardness, dawns. Dean gives him a sardonic expression and nod.  _Yeah, go take a shower; you reek, man._  As Cas goes, Dean drops down onto the bed, and drops his head into his hands.

There aren't enough mirrors in the world to break, and fuck, but he needs to break  _something._  He doesn't know what else to do. He doesn't want to stomach being around people long enough to rile up some fight at a bar. He's got a mental stop on hitting Cas anymore. …Cas. Fucking Cas the Angel, back and broken and helpless, fuck's sake. And him – fucking broken beyond even shamming together. What the fuck. He doesn't wanna fucking deal with this.

He gets up, striding, and his fist leaves a hole in the wall beside the doorframe. Shit. His next few blows connect solidly with the frame instead, until his knuckles are scraped and bloodied, and he drops his head against the cool metal frame.

_What the fuck am I doing?_

»« »« »«

C stands for cold; H for hot. That's elementary. Figuring out the handle is a little more challenging, as is finding a median between the H and the C that actually equals water that is not freezing, and more than tepid as well – but not scalding, either.

Angels don't have to worry about such things.

When he had first entered the bathroom, Cas had remembered that quite clearly. He was able to will his appearance and form to heal and mend at will. So, he had stepped round the glass in the floor, placed the clothes upon the closed toilet lid, and done so.

It hadn't worked.

Juvenilely, he'd willed a bit  _harder_. All that accomplished was making his head swim. Humans were so tactile, so emotional. It was verging on overwhelming, he was quickly deciding. This was something he had  _not_  liked during his stint on skirting being human himself.

So it's rather against his wishes he finds himself under the weak spray of water. It's surprisingly soothing, even as his thoughts are not. What  _is_ he without his angelic powers? Because basically what he is right now is merely a human with some "abilities," and one quite likely soon to be hunted for sport. He can hold his own, he knows, can adapt if he has to, but it would be nice to have familiarity…solidarity.

Will Dean allow him to travel along with him? Will they go to Bobby Singer and see if he knows of anything? …What will Castiel do himself?

He thinks in circles of uncertainties with no answers until the water runs cold, and no twisting of the handle will warm it.

»« »« »«

Dean finds himself wandering out on autopilot to the Impala. He stops and looks down at the keys in his hands, wondering exactly what it is he intends to do. Part of him is tempted to slide behind the wheel, but he knows if he did, he wouldn’t put the keys in the ignition. It was  _Cas;_ he couldn't just leave the guy, no matter how pissed he was at him, not when he was like this. Weakened. _Broken._

_What a fucking pair. The emotionally-incapacitated wandering and bereft dude leading the humanity-challenged and injured not-so-"angeled-up" angel. Great._

He could get in, start her up and just go. Fucking simple, for real. He's pissed with Cas anyways. Whether he's angeled-up or not. …But he won't go. Maybe it's from when Cas had kicked his ass back in that alley (because if Dean wants to admit it, this has been there before even that), but it seems, on a level he doesn't want to contemplate, that he's started to make leaving Cas behind a non-option.

It's almost like he was with Sam…and completely different at the same.

…Yeah. He's done on those thoughts. He'll just accept that he's not going to run out on the guy. Besides, Cas obviously is in a bind and damned if Dean Winchester's default setting isn't "help others." He puts his hands on the roof of the car and drops his head. Fucking damn it.

He pushes off the car – giving her a conciliatory pat of appreciation – and opens the back door. He grabs out the first aid kit from behind the driver's seat that Sam had always kept meticulously stocked when he could, and a bottle of one of his earlier purchases.

That should be a good start, he thinks, shutting the heavy metal. Shower for Cas; alcohol for Dean – just enough so he can sleep tonight, without thought, so he can wake up and figure out just what the fuck come morning. Hell, he'll even share. He knows Cas needs it, too.

With a sigh, he heads back to his motel room and the complications he can't escape follow and wait.

* * *

_(The lyric in the page break is from "Every You, Every Me" by Placebo.)_


	2. Day Two

* * *

— _in—the—shape—of—things—to—come—_

* * *

The towel provided is inadequate for its purpose.

It is meant to be employed to dry oneself off. But the thin cotton becomes sodden itself in this process, and therefore ineffective in its purpose.

…It's annoying.

Castiel dries himself off as best he can with such faulty material and gets dressed. He looks to his own clothes upon the floor before conceding that the face Dean made at his state was perfectly called for – his clothes are a mess (and smell rather badly) – before slipping on the ones Dean had thrown at him. They're soft, the grey V-neck and sweatpants. The shirt doesn't weigh as heavily on his sore back and none of the clothes weight him as much as his suit and trench. It's almost like revisiting his true form – warmth, light.

But it's confining and tactile, which brings him sharply back to the moment. Castiel sighs and rubs at his forehead with two fingers, pressing in hard. An incessant pounding pressure has started to build up behind his eyes and is starting to rival the rest of his aches and pains.

He walks out into the room to find Dean reclining on the bed, a bottle of liquor in hand. Green eyes flick up to him and the bottle is raised in offering. Castiel remembers the comfort (and occasional disastrous aftermath) that alcohol grants – and honestly, the promise of numbness is overwhelming. He catches the pull of Dean's lips as he takes the proffered bottle – it isn't a smile, and it holds too much rue to be a true smirk. It makes Castiel's chest ache; there's nothing of the Dean he came to know within that weak flex of lips, in the dulled dark green of his eyes. Both of those things were so central to him – expressed and held the essence that was the bright soul of Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man. Losing Samuel has truly  _broken_  something within Dean – something Castiel had not realised was so integrally interlocked between them.

He knows what they did was the only solution. Dean Winchester is a resilient man; he will bounce back.

(He hopes.)

Time for alcohol, Castiel decides, twisting open the bottle's cap. The liquid within is rich amber behind the clear glass and white-lettered black label. It burns all the way down to settle smoulderingly in his stomach. He likes the sensation: it gives him something new to concentrate on, and he knows that eventually, he'll forget what it was his thoughts had been taken with earlier.

After several more swigs and still quiet, Castiel breaks the moment. "What are our plans?"

Dean looks over at him, eyes flat. He manages to rouse enough acknowledgment of Cas' inquiry by raising an eyebrow.

"I believe we should go to Bobby Singer's, unless you have a better suggestion?"

Dean stares at him a moment longer, then shrugs, slips the bottle out of Cas' hand and takes a swig himself before settling back against the pillows. He closes his eyes and Cas gathers that the conversation is over before it's started. It's only underscored when Dean grabs up the blankets and settles in, presenting Castiel with his back.

Castiel takes the bottle from where Dean had set it upon the nightstand before rustling up his nest of blankets and takes a long pull, his eyes wandering around the four walls and austere furnishings. Dean's quiet, still form beside him; walls that he is corralled by, a room that he's stuck in, caging him. …He wishes he could fly – by his Father's good Grace how he wishes he could just  _fly._  He'd go to a mountain top or a black-sanded beach or an autistic man's kite-flying Tuesday...and just  _think –_ just let his Father's beautiful work settle his mind and his burgeoning, complicated emotions caused by Dean Winchester – as he often had before. He'd close his eyes and feel the wind about him, lifting him, cradling him, assuring that while all was uncertain, his Father's true intent would prevail. That while there were things on this earth that caused pain and frustration, there was still great beauty – and  _hope_.

His wings stir at the thought, their use ingrained in instinct, and he doubles over with the searing flare. He bites his lip near-bloody to keep from making too loud a sound so as not to alert Dean. It's odd, he thinks after, that he bothers, but it's as natural as his wings wanting to unfurl at the thought of flight, the instinct to hide his pain. Dean shares it.

He balances his forehead against the rim of the liquor bottle's mouth, the glass cool and slick on his pain-flushed skin. He grits his teeth and sits back up, taking another sustaining swig and wincing at the sting upon his bitten lip.

He'll drink until it's all blurred at the edges, until he isn't thinking about how the walls are closing in, about how his wings must looks like they've been snapped like branches in a forceful storm. Until he doesn't realise that Dean hasn't said  _a single word_ to him since he arrived. Until that doesn't matter – that it doesn't mean that Dean's as anchorless as he is. Because one of them has to have some idea as to what to do, and he doesn't think he can be that one right now.

»« »« »«

He thinks that Cas is gone for a moment when he wakes alone in the bed, the room quiet. Upon sitting up, though, he finds that Castiel is sprawled half upon the bed, his lower body trailing on the floor, the empty bottle of Jack possessively sheltered beneath his limp fingers of his left hand near his head. Dean sighs, scrubbing a hand across his face, beard rasping against his palm. So much for that stash lasting: he forgot the guy could drink like a fucking fish. And with the expensive shit he'd splurged on, too. Good thing he bought a couple more cheap bottles with most of what was left of his on-hand cash during his supply run yesterday. He'll definitely think twice about sharing those with Cas if he wants any hope of having a steady liquid diet, good turn be damned. Stuff isn't free, and he's pretty sure most of his fake cards are defunct or maxed – keeping up with them wasn't exactly priority numero uno what with the fucking Apocalypse looming and all. Hopefully, there's still some left on whatever card the room is racking up on or another to be had in his wallet, because  _shit –_  gas. Baby doesn't run on half-assed wishes and he definitely is going to have to psyche himself up before hitting a dive to hustle, instead of just drinking, brooding or picking a fight – none of which contribute to income.

Jeez. Really freaking pathetic. He mentally kicks himself. …But then again, looking at him, Cas is kind of the picture of pathetic, so at least he has a partner in miserable pathetic-ness.

Dean gets out of bed, intent on "shit, shower, shave and get the hell outta dodge" – the Winchester morning routine. He nudges Cas in the calf with a foot on his way towards the bathroom – he wants the guy ready to go when he is. The nudge accomplishes nothing but a sigh and a mumble, and then Cas falls still again.  _Total lush, dammit._ Lips thinning in agitation, Dean reaches out to shake his shoulder.

Well, that works. Yeah, mainly because Cas recoils in pain with a cut-off yell and swings –  _actually swings_  –at Dean with the empty bottle (which makes of corner of the hunter mildly amused: that's still  _Castiel_ , what with the cajones and the reflex – maybe all hope  _isn't_ quite lost). Something's definitely up with his back, but at least now Cas is wide-eyed, if not necessarily bushy-tailed. Dean nods his head back towards the door.

"Are…are we leaving?" Cas inquires, rubbing the heel of one hand against his eye socket. His mouth tastes unpleasantly cottony-dry, not unlike the towel. When did he eat the towel? Why…?  _Oh._ He looks blankly at the pointedly empty bottle in his hand as he sits back on his heels, back protesting intently all the while, until it clicks. From the brief raise of his eyebrows when Cas cuts his gaze up to him, Dean seems to attest his conclusion. Empty alcohol bottle, plus his general state at present: that would be the reason.

"I appear to have consumed all your alcohol…" he states diffidently. Dean rolls his eyes and shrugs, turning and disappearing into the bathroom. Cas frowns as he gets up, dropping the bottle into the wastebasket beside the Spartan desk. He sees the Winchesters' first aid kit set out atop it and sighs. " _The thought that counts_ " – wasn't that the sentiment? …His injuries are all superficial or nothing that human supplies can aid. He sets the kit upon Dean's duffel before sitting uselessly back on the foot of the bed as he hears the shower start up. There's nothing for him to do – nothing he  _can_ do, so that's where Dean finds him when Dean comes out of the bathroom, dressed with his bag of toiletries under his arm. Dean puts on and laces up his boots, leaving Cas sitting with his head in his hands. He isn't sure whether the guy's overwhelmed or praying. Maybe both, because he's certainly gotten the shit-end of the stick recently from the Upstairs. He chews at the inside of his lip before saying: "Cas."

Bruised blue eyes look over at him and he tosses the dress shoes Cas was wearing – which he notices actually are near worn-in on the soles, so he really  _did_ walk God-knows how many days – over.

"C'mon."

It's three words – technically two – but it's two more than he was even greeted with, so Cas' lips flex up minutely, and he complies.

«»

Cas is sitting in the Impala, fidgeting, though he's trying to sit painfully straight and basically perch on the edge of the back seat. Almost like the old days, Dean thinks wryly as he slides behind the wheel. He's secretly glad though: as much as he hates to even think it, he doesn't know if he could've handled finding Cas in Sam's – in the passenger seat.

They've put a state line behind them gone for eight straight hours before the itch to ask finally  _has_ to be scratched, what with the twelve times Cas has settled or drifted, and then popped back up the moment his back hit the seat like it was on fire.

(Not that he's kept count, or has been watching Cas that [–  _obsessively_ –] attentively. But, shit. ...Quiet rides get boring.)

"Wings?" he asks, voice thick because that's what happens when you haven't – and still don't really freaking want to, honestly – talked in ages.

Cas' eyes snap to meet his gaze via the rear-view. They're wide – startled? Or is that actually really barely-checked panic? The gaze quickly cuts to look out a window at the moody day colouring the land in deeper hues. Dean watches him swallow, notes the tightness around his mouth, his eyes and their dark circles. Nothing. …It seems like Dean's silent kick is catching.

He almost doesn't catch the quiet answer, then, when it belatedly comes.

"Broken," Cas says simply. His arms are crossed, but more like he's shielding himself, holding himself together.  _Shit. Jesus._  Literally –  _broken._ That's…bad. Dean raises an eyebrow –  _what the hell do we do about it? Is it permanent?_ – but Cas is in neverland, watching cornstalks roil and roll by under the charcoal-smudged sky, a shiver crossing his shoulders and a slight wince across his lips with it.

Dean resists the urge to knock his head against the steering wheel, though his grip does tighten and twist. He doesn't know what to do with this. Sam – they never had to work for it when he shut down: Sam got him, read him, acted at least like he understood – understood how Dean worked, if not, to Sam's consternation and endless frustration,  _why_. Most of the time, Dean didn't exactly know why himself.

Cas knows Dean like a book, even if he doesn't understand him as a person (doesn't understand  _people_ ) – but the thing is, Dean doesn't know  _Cas_  like that. Hell, Cas probably doesn't even know _himself_  like that. He spent a good time of his de-angeled stint drunk out of his head or in the ever-constant rush of the Team Free Will frontlines. And before that, he wasn't an individual; he was a part of a collective and a tool, a foot soldier and tactician.

They're tilting bookends with a bunch of crumbling  _oh, fuck_  in the middle and a gulf of  _weird_ (also known as "emotions" to normal people) stretching between them, lapping at their ankles.

…Honestly, they're probably going to both drown.

It doesn't help Dean  _sucks_ at the sharing and caring. Venting – venting, maybe, that he can do. He's all right at venting. Let it well, bubble up, shove it down – lather, rinse, repeat. When it threatens to catch him in its riptide, vent a little bit, calm the storm. But being on the other end? Being the sounding board? He listens okay – sort of. Offering constructive advice, meaningful platitudes, emoting empathy? The fuck? He is next to completely useless.

And truth told (and maybe a smidge pettily), Dean's still a little pissed. He's fucking tired of being let down, being relied on – and  _Cas_ …now Cas of all people is leaning on him. …Cas is letting him down,  _again._  Dammit. His grip stays tight on the wheel and his jaw clenched. It's almost hysterical, this. Checking in back whenever he had – he had thought himself in a catch-22 then. But he had had a trapdoor: check  _out._  Not permanently (hell no; he wouldn't dishonour Sam's request like that) but check out until he had a handle on how to be numb to this pain – mentally, physically, emotionally. With Cas in the picture, though, that little loophole's kind of shot to shit: now he's got to be functional, and he has to have this reminder of those last days right there. And even if he foists Castiel off on Bobby, he will still have to face someone  _else_ from his past, from that day – and not just that, but someone who knows what he promised to do, and who will easily read that he hasn't.

Yeah, Dean immediately shelves going to Bobby's. It's not that he  _isn't_ going – he just plans to take his sweet time.

…And run like hell as soon as it's said and done. Yeah, that sounds like a plan.

»« »« »«

It's a rundown abandoned farmhouse to end all rundown abandoned farmhouses on the backside of the ass-end of nowhere where they decide to bed down when Dean finally calls it a night. The rain was falling like crazy, lightning lighting up the sky like dawn's light, and while Dean loves his baby, it ain't fun, nor the safest thing, to try and sleep in metal box in a monsoon-scale thunderstorm. Not if there's any other option to be had.

There hasn't been any electricity to the house in quite some time (if the wallpaper and décor are anything to go by, there probably hasn't been since before Dean was born). The air is thick with dust and heavy with mould and Dean is just praying that he really is imagining the chittering squeaks and scraping little claws. Bugs, he can do. But rats? He'd really,  _really_ rather not. Just…not looking for icing on the disaster cake here.

Cas moves like he's Dean's own shadow, quiet and solemn – more than ever. It makes the hair on the back of Dean's neck prickle. In the last couple hours Dean's readjusted to Cas' presence, fallen back into their vibe. Maybe the guy isn't really  _leaning_  on him - hell, he's barely talked most of the day. He's just...here, too.

They've got the sleeping bag and the two heavy moving blankets John Winchester had kept as impromptu bedding for the boys as far back as Dean can remember since his life was set on its nomadic course. There's another sleeping bag in the trunk, and it probably should have been slugged into this rickety claptrap house with them, but Dean doesn't acknowledge that anything left of Sam's can be used. It's…there, but not. And that's just the way it'll be, for now. (For good, or until he hides it or burns it.)

Dean looks about the living room after a cursory inspection of the other rooms on the first floor and nods to Cas, indicating that this is as good as it's going to get and they'll bed down there. As much as he dislikes it, Dean figures he'll be sharing sleeping space with Cas; the sleeping bag and one blanket will go down as a pallet, because he's too old for this sleeping on the floor gig, and too tired. They bed down for the night, cold gusts pushing through the broken shutters and cracked windows, water dripping in in a discordant symphony. It's awkward; Dean turns onto his side with his back to Cas and as much space as possible between them. He squeezes his eyes shut.

The booze is in the Impala. Which means sleep is hard to come by…and even harder to keep.

Dean startles awake one moment, his face phantom-throbbing and tears salty in his mouth, gasping to cover the sob he woke choking on. Cas' hand is at his forehead, and Dean flinches away, a dual reaction of the dream-memory bleeding over and a furious anger at the memory of what Cas' last touch had taken away.

"Hush," is all Cas says, gravelly voice commanding, but softened in that timbre reserved just for talking with Dean. His fingertips press firmer, and it's all Dean remembers until the light of day creeps across his face.

Waking up, surprisingly, is even more unnerving.

Dean comes round gradually, groggily. Things blur at the edges at first: it's comfortable, more comfortable than he's felt in a while, even before Sam took his swan dive. Warm enough to just bask in. He's lying on his side, and there's a solid warmth against his back and over his side, framing – holding him in. It feels good…. Good that he hasn't had in...he really can't remember last.

Consciousness clears up perception and he realises that the warm shield is Castiel against him, an arm thrown across him. Good becomes mortifying and he rolls away without grace or tact, Cas' intrusive arm thudding heavy on the pallet.  _Shit,_ was the only coherent phrase in the whirl of his thoughts as he bounced a little on the balls of his feet, rattled. They coalesced basically to:  _oh, fuck, what was that?_ and:  _what the hell am I gonna say? How the hell…?_  The answers were decided almost as quickly: It was nothing, and: Absolutely nothing. Routine as usual. Bury and deny, right? Even though maybe… Nope. It was nothing. Had a dream that bled over.

He kicks out at Cas, nudging the sleeping angel  _(no, not angel – angels don't need sleep like that)_ –  _semi-_ angel in the upper arm with a socked toe. Does it once more before long black lashes flutter and Cas stirs, groaning, but stills quickly, probably because of his back, the broken wings.

"Wake up, man."

Blue eyes groggily slide open and Dean's a bit miserable inside that they're  _so blue…_ and so hurt. And dammit, Cas can be an asshole and is a big piece of why Sam's not here anymore, but Cas is Dean's only friend in the fucking world and he shouldn't look that damned  _sad_.

Dean shakes his head, shakes off the feelings of intimacy and concern that claw at his mind, his chest, wanting to linger.  _Dream. I'm awake now. Stop it._  "Morning," he grates as Cas sits painstakingly up.

"I slept again."

And Dean has to glance away from that frown, that furrowed brow of frustration. He's glad that it's only a second before Cas rubs his hands over his face, hiding it.

"Yeah." There's more Dean could say, but he can't make himself force it out.

Cas huffs out a breath and looks towards the sunlight pleading through the fractured shutters, chin in hand with his elbow propped on a crossed knee. "Raphael is a dick."

Dean snorts a slight laugh. It really isn't funny. It's just true…and it's Cas.

"He's toying with me. I don't know if he's coming after me, or if he's satisfied to watch me limp about – crippled and out-of-place." Cas is thinking out loud – Dean can tell from the soft reflection in his voice, the despair – the edge to his words that tell of his anger.

Dean doesn't know what to offer. Instead, he grabs a blanket and sets to rolling it up. Cas sighs again and sits a moment longer before following his lead. They return their gear to the car in silence, the only sounds the wind blowing through the desolate trees and their feet squishing in the mud. Dean gives his baby a good once over before sliding into the driver's side and starting her up.

He realises Cas is in the passenger seat – his brother's spot.

His throat tightens, and this time, he can't begin to explain what the emotion that grips him is. But it's no longer just sorrow and rage. It's convoluted and he's not sure he likes that it's no longer so clear-cut. ...He doesn't say anything, though - can't. The words are there -  _"Get out" -_  but as simple as they are, he can't force them past his throat. They clog there, thick and burning. His eyes sting with it. In the end, he just swallows hard, rubs the back of his hand across his eyes, and Cas just looks out the passenger window as Dean drives back out onto the open backroad, cracked asphalt ribboning out before them and behind them.

Dean lets him stay, and gnaws at his own bottom lip, his mind tilt-a-whirling with incoherent considerations of a myriad of points. Cas fidgets and finally settles on sitting hunched with his elbows on his knees. His mind isn't as rife with confusion, but the frustration level might just about compare.

An hour later – with Dean still nowhere close to naming, resolving or even really burying whatever the emotions that are bouncing about in his head and Cas trying to get comfortable for the umpteenth time – Dean's phone buzzes.

He gives it a look. It's a job, he knows from the name. It's an old acquaintance of his dad's. He had wondered just how he was going to stretch out this trek to skirt around going immediately to Bobby.  _Fortune smiles._

His mind shuts blissfully off as he flicks open his phone and answers.

* * *

_(The lyric in the page break is from "Every You, Every Me" by Placebo.)_


End file.
